FIC: Fine (Sharpe)
Title: Fine
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: Sharpe
Pairing: Sharpe/Harper, Hagman, Harris
Rating: G
Archive: Lothlorien and sons_of_gondor.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I may march over the hills and far away alongside Richard Sharpe, but Bernard Cornwell, the lucky, lucky man, owns the rogue, not me.
Summary: Sharpe and Harper say their farewells to two good friends.
Spoilers: For the end of Sharpe's Waterloo.
Notes: Written for the seans_50 December Film Challenge using Sharpe's Waterloo as inspiration. Also written for the "Spain" challenge prompt (#1) at sharpe_thinking and for afra_schatz, as an extremely late Halloween treat I owe her for "knocking" on my virtual!door last year. D'oh!
Fine
By Galadriel
Nothing more than upturned hills of dirt, hastily lashed-together sticks for crosses marked those lost beneath. Sharpe shook his head, letting his fingers trail off the bark of one of the crosspieces, stepping back and falling in beside Harper, still leaning on the shovel. Their lives were so full of loss that two more stones in the well should make no difference, but these two were far too keenly felt to drop unnoticed.
"Good work, Pat." Sharpe clapped his hand on Harper's shoulder, rubbing his palm against Harper's shirt, the weave oddly alien compared to his own rough regulation-issue clothes. But none of this was right, none of it was normal, not without Hagman's songs and Harris' quips cutting through the wind.
"Aye." With one great push, Harper forced the spade of the shovel into the dirt, letting it stand on its own. He shifted closer to Sharpe, letting their hips brush. "Should we say some words?"
Sharpe shrugged. There was nothing to say, as far as he was concerned, that would be much more than meaningless sounds. But Harper was always one for sentiment, so he cleared his throat. "If you were going to die, you could've done it in Spain, you bloody buggers." He kicked ineffectually at the scraggly grass beneath his feet. "Keep your rifles cocked, and a space by the fire clear for me and Pat, because we'll see you and Old Hob soon enough."
Harper saluted the graves. "Amen."
They stood in companionable silence for a long while, neither man willing to leave. But leave they must, and eventually, once the light started to fade, they began their slow way back to camp.
"Sir?"
"Aye, Pat?" Sharpe picked his way across the rocky path, gaze firmly focussed on his footing.
"Those were fine words for a sendoff." Harper's hand, big and warm, settled at the small of his back, steadying him. "No finer could've been spoken by a man of cloth himself."
Sharpe nodded. He paused in his tracks, waiting until he could feel Harper's arm wrap loosely around his waist. "Aye," he murmured, "And finer men there never have been."
END
(December 31, 2009)
Crossposted to seans_50, sons_of_gondor, sharpe_thinking, sharpe_archive, rareslash.
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: Sharpe
Pairing: Sharpe/Harper, Hagman, Harris
Rating: G
Archive: Lothlorien and sons_of_gondor.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I may march over the hills and far away alongside Richard Sharpe, but Bernard Cornwell, the lucky, lucky man, owns the rogue, not me.
Summary: Sharpe and Harper say their farewells to two good friends.
Spoilers: For the end of Sharpe's Waterloo.
Notes: Written for the seans_50 December Film Challenge using Sharpe's Waterloo as inspiration. Also written for the "Spain" challenge prompt (#1) at sharpe_thinking and for afra_schatz, as an extremely late Halloween treat I owe her for "knocking" on my virtual!door last year. D'oh!
Fine
By Galadriel
Nothing more than upturned hills of dirt, hastily lashed-together sticks for crosses marked those lost beneath. Sharpe shook his head, letting his fingers trail off the bark of one of the crosspieces, stepping back and falling in beside Harper, still leaning on the shovel. Their lives were so full of loss that two more stones in the well should make no difference, but these two were far too keenly felt to drop unnoticed.
"Good work, Pat." Sharpe clapped his hand on Harper's shoulder, rubbing his palm against Harper's shirt, the weave oddly alien compared to his own rough regulation-issue clothes. But none of this was right, none of it was normal, not without Hagman's songs and Harris' quips cutting through the wind.
"Aye." With one great push, Harper forced the spade of the shovel into the dirt, letting it stand on its own. He shifted closer to Sharpe, letting their hips brush. "Should we say some words?"
Sharpe shrugged. There was nothing to say, as far as he was concerned, that would be much more than meaningless sounds. But Harper was always one for sentiment, so he cleared his throat. "If you were going to die, you could've done it in Spain, you bloody buggers." He kicked ineffectually at the scraggly grass beneath his feet. "Keep your rifles cocked, and a space by the fire clear for me and Pat, because we'll see you and Old Hob soon enough."
Harper saluted the graves. "Amen."
They stood in companionable silence for a long while, neither man willing to leave. But leave they must, and eventually, once the light started to fade, they began their slow way back to camp.
"Sir?"
"Aye, Pat?" Sharpe picked his way across the rocky path, gaze firmly focussed on his footing.
"Those were fine words for a sendoff." Harper's hand, big and warm, settled at the small of his back, steadying him. "No finer could've been spoken by a man of cloth himself."
Sharpe nodded. He paused in his tracks, waiting until he could feel Harper's arm wrap loosely around his waist. "Aye," he murmured, "And finer men there never have been."
END
(December 31, 2009)
Crossposted to seans_50, sons_of_gondor, sharpe_thinking, sharpe_archive, rareslash.